


Destiny Indeed

by days4daisy



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Extra Treat, Jealousy, M/M, Magic-Influenced Orgy, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22530520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: The only part of this mess that Geralt has any tie to is the half-naked bard in the center of the pile.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 430
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Destiny Indeed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Longpig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Longpig/gifts).



> Happy Chocolate Box!

"The fuck?”

This is far from Geralt’s first time stumbling on an orgy. Also, far from Geralt’s first time stumbling on an orgy caused by magic. Based on the glazed eyes and widened pupils, tonight’s seems to be of the potion variety. Chemically induced fits of fancy tend to be more obvious to the naked eye. Mental manipulation is more intricate and harder to spot.

None of this is Geralt’s concern. Let merry townsfolk get their jollies off how they please. If an apothecary’s wares are what it takes to break the chains of repression, so be it. It means a more easygoing lot for Geralt to do business with.

The only part of this mess that Geralt has any tie to is the half-naked bard in the center of the pile.

Geralt had hoped his first encounter with Jaskier after the mountains would be - well, not this. But "destiny" has proven keen on belting Geralt's ass at every opportunity.

Jaskier is Jaskier. Irritating to a fault. A liability. An easy target too, something Geralt should be above using as an outlet for his own anger. He regretted it almost immediately, but even that was not soon enough.

In Jaskier's absence, Geralt has not enjoyed the silence as he once did. It has been heavy with regret, and Geralt catches himself speaking to Roach more often to fill the void. So, he tracks Jaskier down. Finds him stuck in the middle of...this.

Geralt isn’t sure if he wants Jaskier to travel with him again. He is an aggravatingly-dressed target for any monster on the continent. But guilt is not a garment Geralt enjoys wearing, and the weight of it has become meddlesome. It distracts his thoughts. Makes his mission less certain. And worst of all, he can’t fucking sleep again. At least Jaskier’s heavy breaths succeeded in lulling Geralt once in awhile.

Jaskier’s breaths are heavy now too for a different reason. His trousers are a ghastly red tonight, like silk soaked in blood, and they tent out in bawdy fashion. Geralt allows himself to look. At least it’s clear what Jaskier's offered to the many royal cuckolds whose pantries he stuffed.

Jaskier does not lie across the grand velvet sofa, he _splays_ like a satisfied cat. His shirt is...somewhere, Geralt assumes. It isn’t on his body, replaced by manicured hands. They slide through dark chest hair to the slouching waist of his slacks. His belt has been undone but left on, the buckle clanking against his hip. Jaskier’s neck and face are a wreck of smeared lipstick and swelling suckled welts.

“Why, if it isn’t Geralt of Rivia!” This, slurred merrily off Jaskier’s kiss-wet lips. He rolls adoring eyes up to meet Geralt’s and smiles. Others also turn towards Geralt with chemically-blurred interest. “You, my friend, look ravishing as always. Or - wait, are we doing ‘friend’ yet? As of our last meeting, we were not." Jaskier trails off on a sigh and buries his face in a nest of blonde locks beside him. A perfect curl of his own hair sticks to his sweaty brow.

“Jaskier,” Geralt greets. “This is quite the predicament.”

“It is - oh, oh fuck, yes it is.” Jaskier’s hips jut off his sofa, coaxed by the slow unlacing of his trousers. “How’ve you been, Geralt? You, um, want to get in on all this? You’re more than welcome. It’s a- bloody hell, it’s a friendly lot, trust me.”

“I don’t need to trust you,” Geralt says, “I have eyes.”

He allows himself a glance down Jaskier’s body as undressed neighbors peel his trousers off. His cock is a pretty thing, blushed a much finer color than his pants. Thick and pearly at the tip with the evidence of his eagerness.

“You do,” Jaskier agrees, nodding. “The prettiest eyes. Like a dragon’s horde. Not that we ever got to see one of those. I still don’t quite understand what happened with that dragon. Ohh-” He dips his head back, eyes squeezed shut. Teeth are on his throat, biting a rouge-smeared path up to his chin.

“Hmm.” There are better ways to spend an evening. But Geralt has suffered worse fates than keeping watch on a naked bard until morning. Geralt folds arms over the back of the sofa. “I didn’t mean what I said,” he offers. “I was angry and unfair.”

“You were,” Jaskier agrees, words shaking and thick with lust. He strains back for Geralt, intent in clumsily licked lips. Geralt does not allow him to reach. “But I’m used to you,” Jaskier adds, when his attempt at a kiss fails. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Forgive me when you sober up,” Geralt says. He settles himself to watch, a good-natured roll of his eyes as Jaskier’s face turns blissful.

Jaskier makes an unbridled sound that should embarrass him come morning. But, even if he does remember this night, he won’t feel any shame. Jaskier lives life to the fullest with little regard for human standards of decency. Aggravating as he can be, Jaskier’s flippancy is one of the things Geralt likes most about him.

“Oh...gods, oh gods,” Jaskier moans. This, when he’s weighed into the sofa by a man nearly Geralt’s match in size and strength. His head is shaved to the scalp, beard long and braided. He tosses Jaskier’s legs apart like each weighs nothing. Jaskier gasps at the treatment. His cock, swollen full, leaks eager streaks across his stomach.

A sour feeling unsettles Geralt's stomach. “Still ok?” he asks Jaskier.

“He’s fine.” A potion-thick growl. “Look at him.”

Geralt eyes the newcomer. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he says. “Jaskier-”

“I said he’s fine.” A harsher snarl and spittle in Geralt’s direction. “Why not satisfy yourself elsewhere, witcher?”

Bruising hands cover Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier sinks into the velvet cushions, sputtering nonsense. His face blisters red, arousal hot down his chest. Fine, it seems. Nothing to worry about.

This doesn’t stop Geralt from setting the edge of a sword against the man’s throat.

The apothecary’s wares have not stripped its revellers of all reason. The man does not hesitate to stumble back, wide-eyed and penitent. Geralt holds the man’s stare as he hoists Jaskier to his feet. Jaskier stumbles as he’s dragged naked from the sofa. Hunger turns his eyes dark and bleary.

“Come on,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s skin is hot against Geralt’s clothes as Geralt leads him from the room.

"Geralt," Jaskier groans against his shoulder. "My pants are back there, I think."

"No great loss," Geralt says. He knows Jaskier is out of his head when his bard raises no further complaints.

His bard. Fuck.

Geralt strips Jaskier from his spellbound playmates with no plan on how to sate his urges. It's one of few times Geralt can remember acting without thought. His third wish with the djinn, the law of surprise, and now this mess.

"Geralt." Jaskier is quiet by his standards.

"It's fine," Geralt lies, and pushes open the nearest door. It seems so-called destiny is on his side tonight. "See? Bed." Geralt motions towards the wooden posted mattress in the center of the dark room.

It hits Geralt one second too late. Destiny. Bed. A naked Jaskier. "Fuck me," Geralt grumbles.

"I'd, um, rather like that the other way around actually," Jaskier interjects.

Geralt hoists him into the room and slams the door behind them. The closed curtains allow some light from outdoors to slip between their folds. But for the most part, Geralt falls into darkness, and it is the prowess of his night eyes that allows him to see. Jaskier's heavy breaths keep Geralt company, as does the scent of his arousal. Mingled with the rest of his spellbound crew, Jaskier's scent was not too powerful. Here alone, he's intoxicating.

Geralt tosses Jaskier onto the bed, and the ancient mattress bleats its protest. A small, asking sound follows through the darkness. "You can have me," Jaskier says, unsure as Geralt has ever heard him.

"No," Geralt says. He leans against the closed door. No footsteps announce themselves, but he remains on high alert.

"Geralt," Jaskier protests. "I want you to."

Geralt snorts. "You'd want anyone within a day's ride at this point."

"True," Jaskier concedes. "But it's their ripe bosoms I'd want. Their sweet petals peeled or their firm dagger hilts-"

"Erotica," Geralt mutters, "is not your strong suit."

"Also true," Jaskier agrees, "but what I'm trying to say is, I'd take every bit of skin, but they're not _you_ , Geralt. I want you. Every inch you'll give me. And now, now would be great."

"Hmm." Dangerous territory. It's good bait, Geralt must admit. His lack of emotion has not removed nature's desires. Proven by the way his stare refuses to leave Jaskier's ample cock. Geralt staked his claim. Dismissed the first suitor to pose any sort of threat. Made it clear that no man will bed this idiot except him. And so, a bed presents itself. Destiny indeed.

"You won't, then?" Jaskier's voice cracks. Small and disappointed, like the dragon's lair all over again.

A seed of that old anger blossoms hot as torchlight through Geralt's chest. "You're a mess," Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs unsteadily. "Always - it's me, after all. In that case, I'll," he winds a hand around himself, "satisfy myself with my own much-practiced talents and thoughts of the forbidden White Wolf until dawn. Wait, hang on." He removes his hand long enough to wet it with his own mouth. This time, when Jaskier squeezes, a tremor takes his body from head to toe.

Geralt takes a deep breath. The taste of Jaskier's need floods the room.

"That body of yours," Jaskier sighs. "Covered in scars. Trophies to your many glories and adventures."

"Or just scars," Geralt tells him.

"Trophies." Jaskier's voice floats warm but insistent. "Those massive, glorious thighs, thick with the strength of so many battles. Your body crafted like stone. So firm and so, ah, so heavy. I'd fear my most sensitive bones would snap beneath you." He laughs, wild and desperate.

Geralt watches his hand drag up the length of his cock. Its blushed girth shines through the darkness with wetness.

"You would be so big inside me." Jaskier sounds like he is in a dream. "Almost too big, but I would do my best, stuffed like a prized hen. I would, and my best efforts would be rewarded, dear witcher. You would bruise me and bite me, and I would scream your name loud enough for every kingdom on the continent to hear."

Geralt's lips twitch. "You mean it's possible for you to be louder?" He steps closer to the bed.

Every movement Geralt makes is some new provocation. Heat blossoms across Jaskier's face. He strains, neck tight and layered with the marks of too many others.

"I would satisfy you," Jaskier promises, smiling. "Oh, would I ever. It would be you singing of my feats for once, you scamp." He laughs again, husky and delighted, and Geralt can only shake his head.

"You're a mess," Geralt tells him. He stands at the foot of the bed, to Jaskier's eyes a looming shadow blocking the little light from the window.

Jaskier shivers on the mattress, and his thighs creep a bit wider. "So you've said," he says. "Your mess, as luck would have it. Ready for tidying as you see fit."

Geralt huffs. "Because you're incapable of cleaning up after yourself."

"Oh, Geralt." Jaskier's sigh is partly sung. "Unlike you, my life's blessing is to be by your side for as long as you'll have me." He follows with a slow pump of his fist. Fresh moisture floods his cockslit and dribbles uselessly down. Jaskier's skin grows wet with it, fingers and hilt.

"Hmm," Geralt mumbles, "a waste."

"I've given finer performances, but 'waste' is a bit- wait, what are you-" Jaskier's eyes turn saucer-sized. Geralt plucks Jaskier's hand from his cock and redirects it to his own mouth.

Jaskier could have imagined how warm and wet Geralt's mouth would be. Though he is not, in the plainest terms, human, he looks every bit a man with the same delectable features. No, it's the skill of Geralt's mouth that startles Jaskier to silence. He gawks at Geralt's firm attention to each finger. Sucking the index, then the middle, full lips curled in obscene fashion. Jaskier laments the time he's spent daydreaming about Geralt's prowess below the belt. No less worthy, of course, but - shit, his _mouth_.

Jaskier's fingers gleam in the low light, soaked from Geralt's suckling. Heart pounding, Jaskier blurts, "I was using that hand, in case you hadn't noticed."

Geralt pauses, Jaskier's hand dangling before his lips. He slants his treasure eyes downward, tongue across his lips. Jaskier groans at the sight. He feels dizzy and hot even before Geralt sets a knee between his thighs. The mattress dips, and Jaskier tosses his legs apart like an unsubtle brothel worker.

"You're not using it anymore," Geralt tells him.

"I'm not," Jaskier echoes in wonder. "Right. You've...claimed it. My hand, I mean. It's not mine anymore, it's property of the White Wolf."

Geralt looks down his naked body. "Not just your hand," he says.

Weaker men would reach their end from the rasp in that low voice. Jaskier escapes with a whispered, "Come on, Geralt. You can't leave a man with no pants waiting."

Jaskier knows somewhere in the magic-fogged crevices of his mind what he's asking for. Still, he isn't expecting Geralt to actually wind that steel grip around the base of his cock. The tips of Geralt's hair stroke Jaskier's thighs like a lover's kisses. Jaskier sinks fingers into it, pushing it away from his face. Nothing, not even Geralt's impressive mane, will stop Jaskier from watching this.

From watching Geralt feed himself Jaskier's cock.

Geralt takes Jaskier as if Jaskier is small. As if it is a meager feat to round his lips around Jaskier's shaft and collect the bounty of Jaskier's early leak. He gives Jaskier's cock a squeeze, and Jaskier thinks the spell must be giving way to madness. There's no possible way Geralt of Rivia's scowling mouth is occupied with the prick of his humble bard. Ex-bard. Whatever Jaskier is to Geralt since their fateful parting at the dragon's lair.

Sudden clarity makes Jaskier stutter, "You don't have to do this. I can make it until dawn, and then we can go our separate ways. Forever if we must. I'm alright, Geralt. I'll be fine. ...Are you hearing me?"

"Jaskier." Geralt's voice bursts hot and annoyed between Jaskier's thighs. "Stop talking."

Geralt follows the command with the descent of his face into Jaskier's lap. No struggle whatsoever as Geralt pulls Jaskier past his lips. Cheeks sunk in like a starving serf. Throat so tight and thick, Jaskier wants to scream. He whimpers instead, a sound he hasn't made since his cock first experienced the touch of another. Jaskier's head spins, and he can't keep his hips on the mattress, at least until strong hands shove him back down. He revels in the thought of Geralt's finger bruises on his skin.

Jaskier's heart is racing. He can't think straight or talk right. His fingers clench in Geralt's hair, the stretch burning his thighs. Geralt is so close, bowed over his cock like a prayer. Jaskier needs to remember this. One million new verses skitter across his tongue. He wants to strum them for Geralt. Stare into his eyes and croon every last lust-filled word.

"Geralt- Geralt- you should, ah- shit- I- fucking can't, Geralt-"

Jaskier pulls Geralt's hair, urgency shaking through his fingers. Geralt growls, and the sound rumbles deep in Jaskier's belly. His toes curl. His vision swims. Meek attempts to ease Geralt off are rewarded by deeper shoving into the mattress. Jaskier's chest rises and falls on a shaking cry.

Jaskier never thought a night like this was possible. But if it was, it would not end with the White Wolf of Rivia drinking from him like a thirsty pup. Geralt swallows what Jaskier gives without complaint. His hum floods Jaskier's bloodstream. It blanks his thoughts and leaves him floating on a river of over-sensation.

The wet sound Geralt's mouth makes popping off Jaskier's cock is worthy of its own ballads. Jaskier gazes down at Geralt and decides, with absolute certainty, that he's in love. Apothecary's potions and emotion-void witcher be damned. He smiles and stares until Geralt shakes his head. "You're making me uncomfortable," Geralt says.

"Sorry. It's just, I'm in love with you I think," Jaskier says. "Like the way the sun thirsts for the moon. Or- or the sea stretches hopeful hands to the shore."

"Fuck," Geralt grumbles. How Jaskier loves when he says that word. "You're drugged out of your mind. You haven't even forgiven me properly yet."

Jaskier laughs, sleepy and full of adoration. "I forgive you for everything you've ever done or will do," he promises.

Geralt rolls his eyes. He seats himself beside Jaskier's nakedness and stares out into the dark room as if it poses some threat. Beyond the door, the rest of the estate has grown quiet. Dawn cannot be too far off.

"Can we do that again, Geralt?" Jaskier asks.

Geralt sighs. "Go to sleep, Jaskier."

"After I sleep?"

"Hmm." Geralt catches Jaskier's glowing, curious eyes. "No. Maybe. It depends."

Jaskier raises a brow. "I could return the favor?" He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying slowly.

Geralt watches him. "Fair trade," he decides. "If you're still up for it come morning."

"I'll be 'up' for so many things come morning," Jaskier assures him, grinning.

With a snort, Geralt musses his hair. "Go to sleep already so this damned spell will end," he says. "I like you less doting. More...you."

As the haze of chemical need begins to seep from Jaskier's pores, he finds the suggestion welcome.

"Mmm." The sound is thick with impending sleep. "You said you like me. Look at you, you old crab. I told you I'd win you over one day."

"Fuck off, bard," Geralt says. Jaskier would swear on his life that Geralt smiles when he speaks.

A smile? From Geralt of Rivia? The spell, even in its dying minutes, must be powerful indeed.


End file.
